


to have and to hold

by Lyre (Lyrecho)



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: (Baymax Voice) Yusufa Is Here, Both Pairings Are More Heavily Hinted At Than Confirmed But You Know, F/F, Grief, Healing, Implied Sexual Abuse, Kinda Way, Oneshot, Post Game, Prim Centric Fic So, Yusufa's Dead But She's Still Here, implied suicidal ideation, in the, technically canon compliant, warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Lyre
Summary: at the end of everything, primrose clings.|Tumblr||Twitter|
Relationships: Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit, Primrose Azelhart/Yusufa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	to have and to hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DetectiveRoboRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/gifts).



> tfw u start a fic and then you take almost two years to do it, oops
> 
> hope it was worth the wait bud
> 
> also like man. h'aanit's speech patterns didn't kill me nearly as much as gentiana ffxv's did (in gen's case i literally just said fuck it and made her speak in Normal English) but i also fully admit i do not. normally write in ye olden tongue so if the grammar is inconsistent and/or Fucked In General i apologise but i was simply going with what vibed good with my one braincell. thank you.

"There's no such thing as endings," Yusufa had told her once. "No goodbyes - only 'until we meet again.'"

Primrose no longer remembers what it was they had been talking about in the first place to trigger Yusufa's descent into philosophy -- most of her memories were that way; the bigger events painted bright, the quiet moments in between fractured but never fading. She clings to them, like she clings to Yusufa, stored safe in a vial that hangs over her heart, warmed over by her skin and giving the illusion of life.

She clings to Yusufa, clings to those words, at the end of everything.

There's no such thing as endings, Yusufa said, and maybe that's true for her, fleeting and beautiful and transient, tethered only to life and this world by a smile and her love for an unworthy Primrose Azelhart, but Prim clings.

And when you cling, no matter how tight, eventually, you have to let go.

Primrose hadn't expected to care for people, life, or living - not after she had lost Yusufa. All that mattered, at that point, was hunting down her revenge. All of her dreams, of returning to Noblecourt triumphant, of reuniting with lost friends...Yusufa had been there too, draped in finery and comfort and all she had deserved that her life had never given her. With Yusufa gone, those dreams were dead too. Prim wanted no part in them.

With Yusufa gone, the only hope that lingered beyond her revenge was the promise of one day reuniting with her smile.

She'd hungered for it -- for weeks, months -- every detour and every new traveller joining their motley crew hadn't shaken her from her goals.

Hadn't shaken her, at first.

Prim hadn't expected to care for people after Yusufa, which is probably why she didn't notice what was happening until it was far too late.

Alfyn's smile. Tressa's innocent cheer; Therion's wounded eyes and gentle ribbing. Cyrus' voice and Olberic's natural chivalry. Ophilia's faith, and her hope.

H'aanit's quiet companionship, her warm regard.

She hadn't expected to care. She certainly hadn't expected to  _ love _ .

And now, like losing Yusufa, she chokes on air like blood and clutches at the vial chained around her throat. Clutches at Yusufa, seeking comfort, because this is the end of everything -- not the end of the world (they'd already handled that), but the end of the status quo she hadn't even realised she'd fallen into. The end of their travels together, as everyone heads their own way, heads home. 

Leaving Prim alone. Again.

It scares her more than she'd like to admit; her revenge done, the future alone is a dark, yawning abyss stretching into eternity, and while that bright promise of reuniting with Yusufa had once been (and still was) her horizon, she smiles through stiff lips and promises Tressa she won't be a stranger when she tries to tackle Prim to the ground, laughs off Therion's stumbling affection (so awkward when he isn't trying to hide it under layers of sarcasm) and makes  _ him _ promise not to be stranger. Cyrus tells her his doors are always open to her, and Olberic's silent nod of agreement from behind him is as warm as a hug. Ophilia and Alfyn  _ do _ hug her. Alfyn might cry a little bit, but he ducks away from her before she can be sure.

Promises, promises. Promises on all sides, and she can't break them. Primrose Azelhart is many things - has  _ been _ many things -- but she has never been, and will never be, an oathbreaker.

Promises like the chain around her neck, tethering her to life, and away from Yusufa. There's a part of her that wants to cry -- and another, smaller part, that's relieved, in a way, for a reason to live a little longer.

Primrose isn't quite sure how to process that, so she doesn't.

At the end of everything, they all spend one last night together, sleeping under the same stars. Tressa had pleaded for them to stay in an inn, but Therion had wrestled her into the dirt, telling her it would be 'just like old times' as she shrieked and tried to twist out of his grasp.

They'd all laughed, and it had felt easy, lighthearted -- not at all like a goodbye.

_ "There's no such thing as endings. No goodbyes - only 'until we meet again.'" _

Yusufa's words haunt her at the best and worst of times. A comfort, an ache.

“Art thou done with thine farewells?”

They trickle away, one by one, that morning, until only H’aanit remains. The sun is noon-high in the sky, and Primrose isn’t exactly thrilled at the concept of travelling through the oppressive afternoon heat with only her own thoughts for company, but still, she summons up a smile. It’s  _ H’aanit _ \-- as much as she’d be able to tell it was at least fifty-percent a lie, Primrose can’t bring herself to send her away with a frown.

“Almost,” Primrose tells her. “After all, you’re still here, no? Or did you think I wouldn’t give you a goodbye?”

“I was rather hoping thou would not, to speak truth,” H’aanit says, so frankly it leaves Primrose blinking. “I find myself wanting to stay by thine side, for at least a while longer.”

Primrose doesn’t blush for a lot, these days, too worn down and worn out and just  _ old _ on the inside, but she  _ feels _ her cheeks flare pink. H’aanit sees it, too -- Primrose knows she does, because she smiles, that smile that dimples on one side that’s been driving Primrose mad for  _ weeks. _

“Just the two of us?” she asks. “Alone on the road? My, H’aanit, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were  _ angling _ for something here.”

“Mayhaps,” H’aanit says. “Primrose, I know thy journey does not end here. If thou would allow my presumption, I would seek to continue travelling by thine side.”

Her eyes flick to Primrose’s chest, and Prim’s hand comes up automatically, to grasp at Yusufa, as if to shield her from H’aanit’s eyes. H’aanit’s gaze immediately lifts, an apology written across her face.

Primrose looks down, and clears her throat. “That -- I would appreciate your company, for at least a little longer,” she admits. “I -- you’re not being presumptuous, H’aanit.”

“It relieves me to hear it,” H’aanit says, and smiles once more that smile that makes Primrose feel like she’s about to dance her first dance all over again. “It will be nice, I think, to travel more.” Her eyes go once more to the vial that rests across Primrose’s collarbone, just briefly, before moving on. “The three of us,” she continues.

Primrose swallows, and grips Yusufa tightly, where she sits just above Prim’s heart. “The three of us,” she agrees, around the ache in her throat.

Journeying with H’aanit alone is something far different to travelling with the others as well -- it’s quiet, for one thing, but not in a bad way. H’aanit’s silences are thoughtful, not weighty -- she’s content to walk on without banter, allowing Prim to set the limits of their conversations.

In some ways, that’s disappointing -- Primrose enjoys talking with H’aanit, yet she runs out of conversation starters and topics faster than she does the desire  _ to _ converse.

Yusufa catches the sunlight that rains down on them, gentle except for where it refracts off of the glass of her vial, and Primrose can’t help but wonder if part of her desire to choke the silence is that she doesn’t want to be thinking too much on the true reason for this journey -- the true reason she wants H’aanit by her side; her deep fear that she can’t do this alone --

\-- that, at the end of everything, she’ll cling, as she always clings. Will be unable to let go of Yusufa, as much as she wants to lay her to rest in a place of beauty and tranquility, green and lush and nothing like the sands that stole so much of her life until they stole the very last of her life, bright red and precious and swept away into the dunes like the ashes from her pyre Primrose hadn’t managed to gather up and hold close.

_ I’ll find you your lilies, _ she’d promised then. She’d known, always, that finding those mythical flowers Yusufa had spoken of in stolen seconds, in soft whispers, would be difficult, had known that the best places to look would be out of the way places, hidden places, and yet, as of yet, she hasn’t managed to bring herself to start making tracks off of busy main roads, worn into the ground wide and even by years of carriage travel.

About a week into their travels, it’s this that’s on her mind as they set up camp for the night, and it seems that H’aanit has finally noticed her brooding -- or, more likely, she’s decided she’s left Primrose to her brooding for long enough, and thinks it’s time to poke at her. It would annoy Primrose, but it’s H’aanit, and deep down, she knows H’aanit has the right of it -- it’s good, sometimes, for people to poke at her, elsewise she would never get out of her own head.

“Primrose,” H’aanit says, unbelievably, unbearably gentle. “Wouldst thou deign to shareth thy burdens with me?”

Primrose snorts, and shakes her head -- not a negation, necessarily, but not quite  _ not _ that, either. As if she was Ophilia clasping her hands in prayer, Primrose’s hands find Yusufa, her north star, and grip tight. “Yusufa -- she liked to tell horror stories,” Primrose says quietly. "I used to think it was because it was a way of bitter comfort -- our lives were bad, but hey, they weren't  _ that  _ bad, in comparison." She pauses, and her grip around Yusufa tightens. Next to her, H'aanit rolls over, and watches her silently until she's ready to move on. "Now, though...I think they were her way of hoping. Of trying to give  _ me  _ hope."

H'aanit blinks, slow and gentle. That's always been something Primrose appreciates about her - the silences between her words speak all the louder for how careful she is with her thoughts. "Why dost thou think that?"

"No one in the brothel was Sunshade born," she says. "We're just girls that ended up in the sands one way or another. Yusufa was no different. I...until the end, Inever truly knew her story, just like she never truly knew mine, but sometimes she'd tell stories not her own - stories from wherever it was she'd lived before."

H'aanit's lips quirk up into a smile. "Horror stories?"

Primrose feels her own lips tug into a reluctant grin. "'Horror' may have been the wrong word," she admits. "Ghost might have fit better, or tragedy." She takes in a deep breath. "H'aanit," she says. "Have you ever heard of blood lilies?"

“Blood lilies?” H’aanit bites her lip, contemplating. “The name art not familiar, but I must admit, outside of some of medicinal purpose, I know not the names of plants well.”

“Of course,” Primrose says softly. “To be honest, before Sunshade, I’d never heard the name either -- I would have thought it just a tale from Yusufa’s hometown, but in all the cities we visited...they knew of them. And the women there  _ told _ me they were real.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. Yusufa is heavy in her hands, but she draws strength from the weight. “From what I know -- what I remember, from what Yusufa told me -- they are a pure white flower, that bleed red from the stalk when you pluck them. They are hard to find, because they cannot be cultivated...as they do not grow from seeds, but rather sprout from places where women experienced violent death.”

H’aanit’s gaze is steady when Prim looks back up at her, but there’s a pinching at the corner of her eyes that tells of her dismay, her uneasiness. Prim quirks a humourless smile.

“I know,” she says, “it isn’t a very nice story. But…” she sighs, and shrugs, and the empty smile turns into something a little more wry, a little more wistful. “Like I said, those stories, to Yusufa, were a hope. Blood lilies grow out of something awful, but they’re also...a singal. A memorial.  _ I was here, I existed, I fought and I bled and I failed but I  _ tried --” Her voice breaks. Her vision swims.

H’aanit’s hand, warm and gentle, comes to rest on Primrose’s thigh.

“Thou dost not wish for Yusufa to be alone,” she says solemnly, and Primrose can only give one single, frantic nod.

“I couldn’t just leave her to the sands,” Primrose says quietly. “She doesn’t belong there. She never did. So I had the idea -- if I could just -- just, away from those sands, find her a patch of her blood lilies. I could lay her to rest somewhere beautiful. Somewhere she wouldn’t be alone. Somewhere that echoes with the ghosts of  _ understanding.” _

“Thine heart,” H’aanit tells her, “is a warm one to make a home in.” Her hand lifts from where it rests, to gently close around Primrose’s own hands -- and around Yusufa, in turn. “Yusufa,” she says softly, “is  _ here.” _

A sob shakes Primrose’s entire body. “But she can’t  _ stay,” _ Primrose all but wails. “I have to let her move on, and be at peace. I have to lay her to rest -- to let go --”

“But,” H’aanit interrupts, still so painfully gentle, “why, Primrose?” 

“Yusufa deserves more than to be tied to me forever,” Primrose insists. “I could never give her all she deserved in life -- all the comfort and fineries that I wanted. The least I can give her is beauty and dignity in death.”

“Thou sayest that as though thou hast not already given that, tenfold.” H’aanit slowly tugs Primrose’s hands open, so Yusufa -- the vial that makes up all the ashes of her that Primrose could gather, all of her that’s not lost to the sands -- rests flat on her open palms. The moonlight shines down softly through the trees, and under that light, Yusufa glows as if made of silver, steadfast and precious.

“If thou art not ready to let go of thine love,” H’aanit says. “Thou should hold on, just a little longer. Yusufa would not be mad, I think. Thou dost not have to say goodbye, just yet.”

_ There’s no such thing as goodbye, _ Yusufa had whispered once.

Primrose closes her eyes, and nods, and tries to swallow down the tears she can feel, still welling up. She takes a shaky breath, and, leaning into H’aanit’s warmth, brings Yusufa to her lips. She presses them to the glass. “Only until we meet again,” she promises.

And then, unable to hold back the breakdown any longer, she curls up into H’aanit’s arms, and she  _ clings. _


End file.
